


The Qualms of the Human Heart

by vesuviannights



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Light Bondage, Monsterfuckery, Other, Tentacle Porn, VERY large tentacle cock, Valdemar with they/them pronouns, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 08:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20871056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesuviannights/pseuds/vesuviannights
Summary: After spending the day nursing a terrible heartache, you head to the palace to seek out Valdemar’s assistance in removing that ache. After lecturing you on the qualms of the human heart and…feelings, Valdemar is more than happy to help you forget all about your pain.





	The Qualms of the Human Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for some anon requests on my Tumblr (@vesuviannights).

You aren’t exactly sure how you made it through the darkening streets of the city and to the palace. Or how you made it past the guards. Or through the corridors without attracting too much attention with your tear-streaked cheeks, or how you had not been thrown out for causing such a spectacle. Down, down, down, you wound your way through the lower levels and eventually found yourself…in the quaestor’s office.

It is much too late to be here. You know that. And perhaps they weren’t the most logical person to confide in for matters of the heart. You…you _know_ that.

But your heart is aching, and your body is shivering, and perhaps their logic, their facts, their almost inhumane ability to separate themselves from feeling and see only what needed to be done…perhaps that was exactly what you needed.

“I-I thought they loved me,” you murmur, your voice still jumping with tiny cries and hiccoughs. The memories of your awful day flash before you, and though you try desperately to lock them in some sort of impenetrable chest so that you may never think on them again, they keep coming, taunting you, haunting you. “They said they did. But they’re—they’re _gone_, they lied, and they left me and it hurts—”

Valdemar tuts quietly at your words, offers you a new tissue with a barely concealed look of…disgust. Disappointment, it seems, at your reaction to your heartbreak. “I warned you, young apprentice. Did I not warn you this would happen? Did I not tell you of the qualms of human emotions?”

You hiccough and glance off, a way to cover the wave of fury that bubbles to the surface for their callous words. But it passes quickly. You know they mean well, some part of them must, otherwise they would not have ushered you into their office, would not have handed you the box of tissues perched on the edge of the desk, would not have spoken or responded to you at all.

Yes, despite their brash words, the quaestor did care, they were trying, and they were not the citizen of Vesuvia who had broken your heart or who deserved your wrath. Still staring at the balled tissue in your hand, you hear Valdemar sigh, their voice laced with a little more than their usual venom when they speak.

“What would you have me do, young apprentice?”

You frown, and when you glance up—squinting just a little against the bright light, chest shuddering with your uneven breath—you see a familiar grin splitting their features.

“W-what?”

“Would you have me make them atone for their sins? Break their heart, like they have yours? I assure you I have many creative ways of doing so, and they can survive through it for as long as you want them to.”

You blink, and it takes a few seconds, but their words finally settle in your mind, and your chest goes tight.

“No!” You blurt out. You swallow, the movement thick and painful, and then say, much quieter, “No. I don’t…I don’t want that. I don’t want you to torture them.”

“Then what? You come to my office crying, shaken, clearly in pain—what would you have me do?”

You are quiet for so long, already knowing the exact words you will say, but perhaps not knowing exactly what they mean. You are too tired to know what they mean, your heart aching too deeply, no part of you wanting to feel and yet every part of you wanting to forget.

_They will know. They will know. They can fix this._

“Please,” you whisper. “_Please_—I just don’t want to hurt anymore.”

And much like you already knew the words you would form, the quaestor seems to already know their answer. They reach forward, plucking the tissue from your fingers with a barely-concealed twitch of their lip before flicking it off to the side.

“Then I will make it so you do not hurt. Do you trust me?”

“Wh—”

“A simple question, young magician. Yes or no.”

They step up to where you are perched on the bed, their muscles seeming to shudder and undulate beneath the surface of their clothing as they step between your parted knees. Up close, you can see the glint in their eyes, curious and intrigued and ready to pry the knowledge they seek from the world through any means necessary. Knowledge _you_ have.

“You came here, to me, so late at night,” they murmur, teeth glinting as they tilt their head at you. “And with such an aching heart, and already asking for me to fix that heart without caring how, so I assume you do indeed trust me. But I am not the monster I am made out to be, and consent is so very important, so tell me, young magician, once and for all—do you trust me to fix that bleeding heart of yours?”

And without having to take a moment to consider, or to wonder exactly what they might be plotting, you nod.

“Then close your eyes, my sweet magician.”

Your lashes flutter against your cheekbones. The darkness settles you, makes your heartbeat a little slower, your breath come a little softer.

You can hear Valdemar shuffling, the rustle of fabric, some of it yours and some of it theirs. Your cloak is shrugged off. Your knees parted so that they can stand a little closer. And then a soothing pressure comes to your shoulders, massaging out the knots and the kinks and the horrors of your day.

It isn’t until you feel a third pressure, one pushing the hair gently from your forehead, that you realise something isn’t quite _human_.

You jerk away from their touch, a quiet cry escaping your lips at the shock of your realisation, but it’s that same shock that keeps your eyes closed, along with Valdemar’s soothing noises and almost-hisses, a strange bedside manner you have perhaps never heard them use until now.

“Keep your eyes closed for me, young magician,” they murmur. “Do not worry on my form or how I am using it. Let me work on you, let me treat you, let me make you feel _good_.”

You swallow. You nod. Your lips tremble. But you do as asked, and you do not open your eyes, you do not move your hands, though they itch so desperately to feel out for their body, to know what form they have taken, how they have changed to sooth and tend to you like promised.

“Ssshhh, don’t cry,” they murmur.

The pressure at your shoulders moves down your arms, massaging and rolling your muscles, making it clear that their presence is merely for comfort and not to keep you bound, at least not yet, not until you beg for it. The third pressure has moved to your jaw, tilting your head up, the light of the office seeping through your lids.

You hadn’t realised you had started to cry again. The ache was still in your heart, the tightness in your chest, but…it was not because of Valdemar. It was not out of fear.

“Lay down.”

You move at their request, reaching behind you to feel your way to the top of the examination bed, laying your head down against the pillow. The pressures have moved to your left shoulder, your knee, your hip. You feel your clothes beginning to slide along your skin, pulled off by an unseen force until you are completely bare, little hairs raised from the chill of the office. 

“I will make it feel so good, my sweet magician,” Valdemar murmurs. You feel their cool breath against your ear, the scrape of their sharp little teeth against your lobe. “So good. You will not ever want a _human_ cock again, only ever mine.”

You feel it, then: a cool, oily appendage—a tentacle—coiling its way around the back of your knee, holding it firm, pressing you open. And then another, slipping under your back to hold your waist. You tremble in their grasp, but you don’t fight when a third and fourth find your wrists, pinning them to the bed above you.

“There we are—I will make you feel good, I will fix everything that hurts—”

You gasp out when another tentacle—you can’t pause to wonder how many there are—tickles along the inside of your thigh, what feels like tiny little fingers (but you know cannot possible be) grazing along the heated skin there, inching closer and closer to where your legs part.

And despite yourself, you let out a soft, desperate little moan, one that shakes your entire body, and when you try to push your way into Valdemar’s touch, you hear them tut, and the tentacle slips right past where you want it, instead making its way up your abdomen and chest, leaving a cool slick in its wake.

“Open your mouth.”

You feel the tapered tip of the tentacle press itself against your lips, and with a quiet whimper, you do as asked. It slips into your mouth, seeming to warm the instant it makes contact with you, as though sensing your discomfort and changing itself to make sure you were still responsive.

It tastes strange at first, clean and soapy and with a strange hint of spice you can’t quite put a word to, perhaps something the quaestor likes to drink or burn in their office. You whimper again when the tentacle slips a little further in, tickling the back of your throat.

Along with that tickle comes an ooze of liquid, coating your mouth and throat, one that makes your head spin and the ache of your body become a little more dull. You moan and suckle greedily, wanting more, wanting it to take away every ache and pain. In response, Valdemar sighs in soft delight, and you feel a new tentacle tickling at your abdomen, moving toward the part of your legs.

“Did I not say? Did I not promise you?” Valdemar croons. “I will make you feel _good_. Just keep suckling, my sweet magician, let my venom soothe and settle you, and it will make everything that comes after so much more pleasurable.”

Something presses against your hole, a now-familiar cool slickness as the tip of the tentacle probes and flicks against you. Your hips press into it, trying to silently ask for it to slip a little deeper than the tiny little thrusting motions it is making, barely any larger than the tip of a finger. You let out a pathetic little groan when it refuses you, and you hear Valdemar tut once more, followed by the tentacle at your lips slipping a little further down your throat, and a little more of their sweet venom wetting your tongue.

And that’s when you feel the tentacle begin to press its way inside of you, its tip slipping in a few inches before it swells in size, pressing into every sensitive spot. You moan and keen and whine, and when you try to press your hips up once more, you feel even more of the cool, slick extensions of the quaestor slip around your hips and thighs, lifting you off the bed and locking you in place so that you can no longer squirm, kept in the air for them to admire as you prepare to writhe and choke on them.

“Patience,” they purr, the sound sweeping through you, caressing you like velvet. “You will take much more of me than this, my sweet magician, my wonderful little pet. I am much larger than any human or fake cock you might have ever seen, and if you take all of me now, too quickly, there will be no opportunities for fun later on.”

You whine, trying to form words to beg and plead and bargain—you want all of them, and you want it _now_, you want them to stretch you, ruin you, destroy you, take away every throb of pain in your aching heart and cause new delicious pains in every hole they can, stretching you, fucking you, _please_—

They chuckle in your ear, and a moment later you feel yourself settling back onto the bed and against their chest, your knees spread apart, wrists held above your head. Eyes still closed. Always closed.

“One day, I might let you see,” Valdemar purrs. “If you are good. But for now, I just want you to _feel_.”

You cry out as the tentacle shifts inside of you, swelling and growing and flicking against your walls, the sound cracking your voice, straining your throat. It feels so good, so good, _please_, more more _more_—

And more does come, in the form of more venom on your tongue, a delirious wave of arousal shuddering through your body as both tentacles begin to move inside of you, making wet noises as they slip in and out of your greedy holes.

You know the one between your legs should hurt—it’s so large, and long, and it hardly seems scientific or plausible that something longer than your forearm, wider than your balled fist, could be filling you without damaging anything, but somehow it is, somehow this otherworldly creature is fucking you and your body is adjusting to them.

And you know it should be making you scream and cry out and beg for them to stop, but the venom, the arousal, the sweet words they are murmuring in your ears which aren’t sweet at all, it is all bending your body to their will, making it so that something so large could never hurt you, only make you scream out in pleasure.

Valdemar’s teeth catch your lobe as their tentacles fuck you with increasing speed and ferocity, bouncing your body in the air between them, making your eyes roll back in your head behind your lids.

“Would you like more?” They ask, though they do not pause in their fucking you to give you a chance to answer, and it takes many groans and whines and garbled pleas around the tentacle pumping itself into your throat to make it happen.

“YES!” You gasp out when the tentacle pulls back just enough for you to speak. “_Yes_, m-more, please—_please_, give me more—”

“Does it feel good?” You whine, and you feel something slither and coil around your neck, tilting your face toward Valdemar’s cool breath. “Use your words. Tell me if it feels good.”

You don’t know how, but somehow the words do come, bubbling from your lips in a haze of desire and delirium, and as your reward, you feel a second tentacle wind its way between your legs, beginning to slide its way along you to finally draw you to your orgasm.

And it comes so quickly, and before you even have the chance to whimper for them to be nice, to be kind, to let you catch your breath, you are screaming around the tentacle that has slithered back down your throat, black spots popping in your vision as you cry and moan and whine and keen.

Somewhere in the distance of your mind, as your tight little hole milks their tentacle cock, you can hear them encouraging you, praising you, and as you slowly begin to melt into their hold, unable to keep any part of yourself upright or in control, it sooths the last of the ache still residing in your heart, and you barely remember exactly what it is you came here for.

You release a quiet little whimper as you feel their tentacles slip from your throat and your hole, leaving you feeling so strangely empty, with only a hint of that spice remaining on your tongue.

You wish you had the words to ask for more, to ask to be stretched again, even further this time, to be made to come over and over until you blacked out—because even with your eyes still closed, you did not want to risk remembering your heartache.

“Time to rest, now.”

Softness. The pillow, back beneath your head, followed by the cool leather of the examination bed. The cool coils of their tentacles slip from your bare skin, leaving behind a warm dampness that seems to comfort and sooth you, much like the venom had.

“You are always welcome here, my sweet magician,” Valdemar tells you, just as you begin to feel your aching body—a new ache, an almost delightful one—begin to pull you toward the realm of sleep. “Whatever ails you, I will always be the one to help.”

You think you murmur back. You hope you do, a _thank you_, or one final _please_, a hope for just a little more.

But whether you do does not seem to matter. The last thing you feel before you are taken into the blissfully empty realm of your sleep is a cold but human hand pushing the hair from your forehead, and the feel of a scratchy hospital blanket slipping over your body, protecting you from the night and all that comes with it.


End file.
